The Baron had himself driven to the Place du Palais Royal. He had regained all his mental agility in order to carry out a plan thought out during the days he had stayed in bed overwhelmed with distress and grief, and having crossed the Palais Royal he hired a splendid carriage in the Rue Joquelet.
Following the order he had been given, the coachman turned into the Rue de la Ville l’Évêque and into the courtyard of Josépha’s house, whose gates were opened for this magnificent carriage at the coachman’s shout.
Josépha, prompted by curiosity, looked to see who was there. Her footman told her that an invalid old man, unable to leave his carriage, begged her to come down for a moment.
‘Josépha, it’s me!’
The famous singer recognized her Hulot only by his voice.
‘Why, it’s you! My poor old fellow! My word, you look like one of those twenty-franc pieces, clipped by German Jews, that money-changers won’t take.’
‘Alas, yes,’ replied Hulot. ‘I’ve been at death’s door. But you, you are still beautiful! Are you kind as well?’
‘That depends; everything is relative,’ she said.
‘Listen,’ continued Hulot. ‘Can you put me up in a servant’s room in the attic for a few days? I’m absolutely broke, without hope, without bread, without a pension, without a wife, without children, without a roof over my head, without honour, without courage, without a friend, and worst of all, liable to be arrested for non-payment of bills of exchange.’
‘Poor old chap! That’s a lot of withouts! Are you without breeches—a sans-culotte—as well?’
‘You’re making fun of me; I’m done for!’ exclaimed the Baron. ‘Yet I was counting on you, as Gourville* did on Ninon.’
‘Was it a society lady, as people say, who was responsible for the state you’re in?’ asked Josépha. ‘Those wenches know better than we do how to pluck the turkey. Oh, you look like a carcass that’s been picked clean by the crows. I can see the daylight through you!’
‘There’s no time to waste, Josépha!’
‘Come in, old boy. I’m on my own and my servants don’t know you. Dismiss your carriage. Is it paid for?’
‘Yes,’ said the Baron getting down leaning on Josépha’s arm.
‘If you like, you can say you’re my father,’ said the singer, touched by pity.
She sat Hulot down in the magnificent drawing-room where he had last seen her.
‘Is it true, old boy, that you’ve killed your brother and your uncle, ruined your family, mortgaged your children’s house up to the hilt, and embezzled Government funds in Africa, for the benefit of the princess?’
The Baron bowed his head sadly.
‘Well, I like that!’ exclaimed Josépha, getting up full of enthusiasm. ‘That’s a wholesale conflagration. It’s Sardan-apalus!* It’s grand! It’s perfect! You may be a rotter but you have a heart. Personally, I prefer a spendthrift like you, who’s crazy about women, to those cold, soulless bankers who are supposed to be virtuous but who ruin thousands of families with their railways that are gold for them but iron for their dupes. You’ve ruined only your own family; you’ve affected only yourself. And then, you have an excuse, both physical and moral.’
And striking a tragic pose, she recited:
‘C’est Vénus tout entière à sa proie attachée.’*
‘And there you are!’ she added, with a pirouette.
Hulot found his sins absolved by vice; vice smiled at him from the midst of its unbridled luxury. There, as for a jury, the magnitude of the crimes was an extenuating circumstance.
‘Is your society lady pretty, at least?’ asked the singer, trying, as her first act of charity, to distract Hulot, whose grief went to her heart.
‘Indeed, nearly as pretty as you!’ replied the Baron tactfully.
‘And … game for anything, so they say? What did she do for you then? Is she more amusing than me?’
‘Let’s talk no more about her,’ said Hulot.
‘They say she’s ensnared my Crevel, young Steinbock, and a magnificent Brazilian.’
‘That’s quite likely.’
‘She’s living in a house Crevel gave her, that’s as pretty as this one. That hussy, she’s my major-domo; she finishes off the men I’ve had first go at. And that’s why I’m so curious to know what she’s like, old man. I caught a glimpse of her in a carriage in the Bois de Boulogne, but only from a distance…. Carabine told me she’s a consummate gold-digger. She’s trying to eat up Crevel, but she’ll only be able to nibble at him. Crevel’s a skinflint, an amiable skinflint who always says yes but does only what he wants. He’s vain, he’s ardent, but his money’s cold. Fellows of that sort are good only for a thousand to three thousand francs a month, but they draw back at any big expenditure, like donkeys at a river. It’s not like you, old boy; you’re a man of passion; you could be induced to sell your country! So you see, I’m ready to do anything for you. You’re my father; you gave me my start in life. It’s a sacred duty. What do you need? Do you want a hundred thousand francs? I’ll work myself to death to get them for you. As for giving you board and lodging, that’s nothing. Your place will be set here every day. You can have a nice room on the second floor and you’ll get a hundred crowns a month pocket-money.’
The Baron, moved by this welcome, showed a final spark of noble feeling.
‘No, my dear, no, I didn’t come here for you to keep me,’ he said.
‘At your age, it’s quite a triumph,’ she said.
‘Here’s what I want, child. Your Due d’Hérouville has huge estates in Normandy and I’d like to be his manager under the name of Thoul. I’m capable and honest, for a man’s taking money from his government doesn’t mean that he’ll steal from a cash-box.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Josépha. ‘He who’s drunk once will drink again.’
‘In fact, all I want is to live incognito for three years.’
‘That can be arranged in a moment, this evening, after dinner,’ said Josépha. I’ve only to ask. The Duke would marry me if I were willing, but I have his money and I want more than that … I want his esteem. He’s a duke of the old school. He’s as great as Louis XIV and Napoleon put together, although he’s a dwarf. And then I’ve done the same for him as Schontz* did for Rochefide: thanks to my advice, he’s just gained two million. But listen to me, old chap. I know you; you’re fond of women, and once you’re there you’ll run after the little Norman girls, who are fine lasses. You’ll get your bones broken by the lads or the fathers, and the Duke will be forced to give you the sack. Can’t I see, by the light in your eye when you look at me, that the young man within you isn’t dead yet, as Fénélon* said. That job wouldn’t do for you. You can’t break with Paris and us girls just at will, you see. You’d die of boredom at Hérouville.’
‘What’s to become of me?’ asked the Baron, ‘for I only want to stay with you long enough to reach a decision.’
‘Well, would you like me to fix you up according to my ideas? Listen, you old stoker!’